Ogridan

Something wakes me. Something did wake me. I just don't know what.

I lie motionless, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the next clue. A hint of sound.

It's dark enough that if I held my hand up near my face I would have trouble making out my fingers. At least, until my eyes adjust to the dark. The night is darker than my dreams these days. My focus is on the future rather than the past.

My sleeping quarters are a small, modest, square room. A cot for sleeping, and a shelf for reading material, most of it theological in nature. No table. No chairs. And no windows. A single hinged door, the only way in or out. I don't keep it locked.

I'm not startled or scared by any unknown visitors in the room. I don't yet see why I should be. But vigilance is just a facet of what I am at this point. An Aegis protects. And how can could I protect others without first protecting myself?

I stand all at once to face the rest of the room, gears clicking, drawing a dagger I keep hidden under my pillow.

In the half-second it takes me to do this, there's a bluish, white-ish gleam ahead of me, and a shadowy silhouette. An intruder who has yet to announce themselves.

The standing, the drawing and the slash is all one fluid motion. I aim toward the gleam, the moving light. And something stops me. The clang of metal, blocking my dagger. A new bar of white in the darkness, locked against the blade of my dagger.

This makes me hesitate. The block was too fast, and too precise, for a careless thief--only someone desperate or stupid would enter my quarters without scouting the place first, and the slightest inquiry would tell them an Aegis lived here. Only an idiot would try to tangle with an Aegis.

Unless you were also one.

The flash of light. That had been a pair of eyes, blurring together as the head of the intruder swiveled. And I recognize that pair of eyes, staring back at me now.

"Kazen," I say, to the murkily shadowed room.

Her eyes are light-blue. Faintly glowing circles, staring back at me. Like me, she isn't native to Ogridan, or Daroven. Not entirely. She's part Darovenian, and part something else. But it's not blood that ties us. She's an Aegis, like me. Her duty is to Ogridan, and Varcovith. In that sense, she is my sister.

She's also fun to be around, but this is secondary.

Her eyes become half-circles as she squints at me. She snickers. "Just testing you."

I pull my dagger back. "Do I pass?"

"You always pass. You're kind of a freak, that way."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You would."

"Is there a reason you've decided to accost a brother in the middle of the night?"

"Haven't done anything like that, yet," she says. "I was just saying 'hi'."

"Hi," I say, sheathing the dagger.

"See?" She says. "Isn't it nice to exchange pleasantries?"

I smile a little. "A waste of time, but I'll allow it."

I press a button on my nightstand, activating the glowlight. Dirty green light blooms from one side of the room.

Kazen has her dark hair tied back behind her head, with a few stray strands having broken free, framing one side of her face. The white bar that blocked my dagger in the darkness is her half-sheathed sword, which she now slides back into its scabbard. She puts the strap over her shoulder and then head, tightening it so the sword is slung across her back.

Kazen about my height, putting us eye to eye. She used to be shorter, before her Reforge. She has long forelegs, with hoof-like metal appendages where her feet would normally be. Pistons at the back of her legs, designed to absorb shock. She's the fastest Aegis I know on foot, and the farthest and highest jumper. She can get anywhere she needs to be on the battlefield. It's almost impossible to stop her.

She's wearing a long black coat, not unlike the one I have hanging on the rack next to the door, only hers has long sleeves. Of the parts of her that are Reforged, all that's visible is her hands and her bare metal forelegs, which glimmer in the dingy glow.

"Well," she says, with a brief look around. "It's my first time here. I feel I'm obligated a tour of the place."

She's not a pace from me. We both stand in the relative center of the room. If I moved past her, it would be only another two steps to the door.

"Why are you here?" I say.

"To fetch you," she says.

"Fetch me?"

She steps aside. Behind her, just outside the open doorway, stand three armored guards with Zar'Hazel's insignia on the right shoulder of their uniforms.

"Ah," I say.

For some reason I glance down, suddenly conscious of the fact that I'm only wearing a pair of grey underwear.

Though I am mostly metal at this point, there are some parts of me down there that aren't. All in all, I'm glad I wasn't sleeping naked.

I look up in time to see Kazen wink at me.

I can only shake my head. It's only a joke on her part. A game that only works because we both know it's not how she actually feels. But even then it feels a bit out of turn to me. We don't think of each other that way. Or at least, I don't perceive her that way. And wouldn't it be strange if I did? It's not like she isn't attractive. She has a beautiful face. Long, lush hair. With clothing draped over the parts of her that aren't entirely human, she does appear to have a striking, feminine figure. But again, it's metal under there, not flesh. As Varcovith has willed it. Sex is for the masses, not necessarily for us Reforged, who are called to a high and narrow purpose. And especially not to us Aegis'.

"I'll be right out," I say.

Mercifully, she leaves as soon as I ask, shutting the door behind her. Clothing myself will only take a matter of seconds, and won't reveal any more of my body than I already have, but I still think I deserve the gesture. It's only decent.

My one pair of pants is already folded, on the stand next to the bed. So is my shirt. I only have one set of clothes. I tend to clean them every other day, and let them dry in the night. Except for the socks. I have three pairs of those, so I can swap them out when they get holey. There's a theological joke in there somewhere, but I leave that to more irreverent people like Kazen.

I put on and tie my boots last. They give me just enough lift that now I have to duck as step out the door.

I round the corner, stepping out of the shadowy corridor and down an alley toward the street. Streetlamps cast bright yellow orbs of light. One of them casts four blob-like shadows from Kazen and the guards onto the grey walkway.

Kazen's arms are folded. She tilts her head at me.

"Where are we headed?" I say.

"Zar'Hazel's tower," she says. "Where else?"

A strange question. Is there such a thing as an obvious place to be in the middle of the night? After you leave your assigned quarters and wander the streets?

Something's off. Official Ogridan business is not conducted this way.

"He said you would be resistant," Kazen says. She can tell I'm hesitating. "He said it was ironic that you were stickler for the rules, given your history. I'm not sure what he meant by that."

"I don't know if I would quite say that," I say. I keep looking over at the Zar'Hazel's guards, as if I might be able to glean something from their behavior. But they merely stand at attention, looking around for signs of trouble, or the potential of being followed.

Kazen leans close. Her eyes flick back and forth, looking into mine. "All I can say right now--and it's possible I shouldn't even say this much--is that the High Commander is holding a secret meeting. And you're one of the people he's chosen to attend. So are you coming, or not?"

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My gut tells me I can trust Zar'Hazel. He doesn't just go through the motions of Ogridanian politics. He's one of the good guys. It's why I responded the way I did, once I saw the insignia.

Still. There's something ominous about this whole thing. I'm on the boundary of something new, here. Course, if I don't go, I'll never find out what it is.

"Lead on," I say.

****

It's past curfew in Ogridan. Except for the odd disturbance of noise from inside some dwellings, and the lurking shadows of those who see our procession and hide in the alleys immediately, the streets are mostly quiet. Deserted. It's haunting, really. I can't help but think of what this place would look and feel like if the people of Daroven were to actually be wiped out. With the people extinguished, perhaps this place would go on without. An abandoned husk.

Of course, if such a thing were to happen, it would only be because Varcovith willed it. Surely he would have the power to prevent such a thing from occurring. If it did, it was stand to reason that it was all a part of his plan. If that were true, I would have to accept it? Wouldn't I?

Though I love this city, I don't fight solely to protect it. Or even the people in it, though I care for them also. I fight for things that are beyond what I can see or feel right now. For a future I will probably not live to experience for myself. But I still believe in it.

There's a musty, almost damp taste to the air, right now. The circulation vents are partially shut, and the fans set to half-speed at night, though I can still hear the faint whir of them as we step past, and the feel the stirred air rush past my face and through my hair, like a lukewarm breeze. Above, high in the air, past the glass dome canopy, a myriad stars shimmer against the black backdrop of space.

We move on foot. Most transportation is shut down for the night, anyway. And besides, we don't have that far to go.

Zar'Hazel's tower juts prominently out of the skyline. The tip of the tower has an angle to, like the haft of a spear connecting to the head.

Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised when the guards don't lead us toward the front entrance. Instead, they usher us around back, weaving between the shadows of back alleys. As we arrive behind the tower, one of the guards runs a gloved hand across the brick-hewn wall, until his finger catches on a hidden latch, and he pulls, causing a ladder to drop down within reach reach. The ladder connects to a platform, and more platforms, with switchbacking stairs leading up.

It's possible that Kazen and I could have reached the stairs ourselves, albeit by consuming an unnecessary amount of Coil. I can't say the same for the guards. There isn't an Aegis among them, let alone a Reforged.

One of the guards gestures for the two of us to go first. I decide to take the lead. It makes sense for the guy to go first in this type of ladder-climbing situation. Not that such things matter between the two of us. But still.

The ladder has a rickety feel, and falls a little as I bring my full body weight onto it, before catching and locking in place, though it still wiggles side to side a little as I hold on.

For a second, I'm wary. Sometimes I forget how heavy my parts are. Dense. But the ladder holds just fine, despite its initial precariousness.

I start to pull myself up. I try not to move too fast. The hard tap of my Reforged fingers on the ladder make ticking echoes in the back alley. Each rung sheds a film of rust and flaked paint, adhering to my fingers and palms in rough patches.

Kazen follows below me. She's quiet, as she grips the rungs with gloved hands. I can't hear her leg appendages, which must mean she's pulling herself up using her upper body alone. It's near silent, and she's more than capable of the method.

I reach the top of the ladder and pull myself up. The platforms and stairs are made of a dark, corrugated metal. When I look down, I can see Kazen and the others through the gaps. A railing runs the edge of the platform, like a waist-high fence.

"Hey there," Kazen says in a hushed tone. With only her head visible, she blows some disobedient locks of hair out of her face. Then she pulls herself up and leans back against the railing.

"Hey yourself," I say.

The guards are seconds behind us. They move in single file up the stairs, deathly quiet despite their quick movements. I followed after, with Kazen just behind me. Her metal hooves make subtle clicks on the stairs.

We pass six flights before the guard at the head stops suddenly. He knocks a few times on a door, making a distinctly timed pattern with the rap of his knuckles.

There's an anticipatory pause. Finally , the door opens. Just a crack, at first. Then, after a few seconds, it's thrown wide enough for them to filter inside.

A fourth guard, the one waiting for us, shuts the door. He waves at us, trying to get us to move down the hall, some urgency visible in his body language.

Together, all six of us are clustered at one end of a long hallway. Yellow glowlights in the ceiling overhead. Green, fading paint on the walls. Flat, fibrous, maroon carpeting.

Not exactly the look that I had expected for Zar'Hazel's abode. But then, it's not like he had it built from the ground up. He'd merely requisitioned the building for his purposes. Besides, he wasn't like the members of the Heraldic Order, obsessed with appearances and grandeur. He was a practical man. Practical and ardent. Likewise, I don't buy into the idea that my humble little residence is somehow a reflection on the power and majesty of my God. I merely take what is needed and use it the best as I can for his purposes. There's nothing else to it.

Our footfalls make rambling echoes in the hall. We turn a corner twice before coming to a sudden stop at a door. The guards don't knock. They merely open the door and usher us inside.

I'm immediately given the impression of some kind of conference room. There's a long oak table with a dozen chairs. A wide chalkboard against the far wall. On the other side of the table, with the chalkboard as a backdrop, sits High Commander Zar'Hazel.

I've never seen him like this. Without his formal garb, holding himself high and addressing people in a regal, stately manner.

He looks like he's been up a good deal of the night, and is really starting to feel it. He wears a plain, sleeveless undershirt. His hair is messy, sticking up and cow-licked in some un-flattering ways. Dark crescents under his eyes. Hunched in the chair, looking down at some kind of parchment, laid flat on the tabletop.

When he looks up, he squints at us, like he's trying to stay focused and awake. His elbows rest on the table, holding him up. He waves at the chairs on the side of the table opposite him, suggesting Kazen and I sit.

I exchange an awkward glance with Kazen. Something I wouldn't normally do in the presence of a superior officer, but this feels different. When 'betters' no longer hold themselves with decorum, an askance reaction is only appropriate, regardless of what the consequences might be.

"Would it make you feel better if I made it an order?" Zar'Hazel says, back straightening as he stares me down.

I bow. "I mean no disrespect, High Commander. It's all very unusual."

"That it is," Zar'Hazel says. "No doubt you will rise to the occasion. With aplomb." He gestures to the chairs again.

It takes me a second to realize that Kazen is looking at me, waiting for my reaction. She's following after my lead. Does she really respect me this much? And why is she looking to me, in this? What exactly is happening here?

Well. There's only one way to find out.

I sit. Kazen sits next to me. The chairs are sturdy, designed to accommodate the weight of a Reforged.

Zar'Hazel looks at me. Then Kazen. Then me, again. He seems to be waiting for something. That, or trying to think of what to say. Which, again, is unusual.

The awkward silence is broken when the door opens suddenly. One of the guards brings in a steaming mug of what smells like tea. Zar'Hazel seems delighted to receive it. "Anything for the two of you?"

I give a curt shake of the head. I don't look to see what Kazen does, but Zar'Hazel seems to take it as a 'no' as well, because he dismisses the guard.

Almost immediately after the guard leaves, someone else walks in. Someone I recognize immediately. General Ralen. For whatever reason, she's in full armor, pauldrons gleaming, her red cape dragging behind her on the floor. Her loose, white hair--with lengthwise lines of dyed purple--hangs past her shoulders. She's full Darovenian, and one of the oldest of the Reforged. Her vibrant pink eyes flit back and forth. She stands next to Zar'Hazel. Doesn't sit.

Zar'Hazel takes two deep gulps from his tea. Runs a hand through his hair. Taps the parchment on the table with one finger. "Today--or yesterday, however you want to look at it--a copy of this manuscript was left on the front door of every temple in the city."

I cock my head, trying to look at it. "What kind of manuscript?"

"It's a manifesto," Ralen says. It's one of the first times I've ever heard her speak. In battle, she likes to signal to her men by swapping out the colors of a war banner she straps to her back. Her movements draw enemy fire like--well, like an Aegis with a giant, rippling flag on their back. And yet no one can quite seem to hit her.

"What kind of manifesto?" I say. I can tell Kazen is watching me, and I have a feeling that she's already been party to this same conversation, somehow. She already knows what they're about to say.

"Why don't you read it yourself," Zar'Hazel says. He rotates the parchment and pushes it across to me.

I take it. Kazen gives me a look that says, 'Go on. Read it.'

So I do.

I hear the occasional slurp from Zar'Hazel as he sips from his mug. There's a dull buzz from the glowlights overhead, illuminating the parchment as I read.

"Dear friends--brothers, sisters. Fellow children of the one we call the Grey God.

"Though we are a displaced people, many stars from the land we used to roam, we have long called this new place our home. Literally. 'Daroven' is more than just a section of land we, as an arriving people so long ago, allotted ourselves on this once-desolate continent. It is even more than what we call ourselves as a race. The race of Daroven. No, it is the namesake of the world from which we originated. A place that, for the purposes of this writ, I shall refer to as 'True Daroven'.

"Many thousands of years ago-"

I look up from the parchment. At Zar'Hazel. "What is this?"

He shrugs. "Keep reading."

I look to Ralen. To Kazen. But there are no answers forthcoming.

Very well, then.

I read. And the longer I read, the more clear the message of the manuscript becomes.

It's a sentiment I've heard before. Usually from certain groups among the common people. And though there could be some among the Heralds who also feel this way, none would dare say so.

It's been a long, grueling, and devastating war. Spanning over a hundred years. Generation upon generation. Sometimes I forget that. After all, I've only been a part of it for scarce more than a decade. I'm new to this, devoted as I am. The same generation that mourns the loss of their parents and great grandparents in this struggle will watch as their children march off to the same fight. It is the nature of Varcovith's Will for his people. No one said it would be easy.

Not to mention the Reforged. There are people among them who remember a time when they existed peacefully on Borane. And some, like Zar'Hazel, carry memories even further back than that.

But does anyone truly remember back as far as 'True Daroven'? Can it be? Or is the writer simply reciting the old stories of our promised land--the place from which we've long been outcast, and will never return? He writes of the place with such fondness. The prose oozes with nostalgia.

Not that it matters. What it comes down to is this--the writer of this piece is done with the war. He's done with Kalthima, the Shattered Continent. He's done with Varcovith. He says it's our time, now. The time of the people of Daroven.

I find myself skimming, and glossing over some things, though I know I'll be back to go over it in detail at some point, and more than once. I need to understand the mind behind the person who wrote this.

This person is my enemy.

"Much is spoken of what Varcovith did for us. He broke the chains that bound us. He promised us salvation, and a world where we could be free.

"My friends. Brothers and sisters. Fellow people of Daroven. This is not that world. And we are not free. This we all know. We are bound. Held fast by great chains, weighed down by the corpse of a dead god--"

Something happens. My chair has flung back suddenly, knocked to the floor. It takes me a second to realize I'm standing. I hold the parchment with both hands. And there's a long rip down the middle.